Harry Milvaine: or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy. Stables Gordon
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perched, and sometimes strike us dead, as quick as a lightning’s flash.”
“And I suppose you must sing?”
“Oh yes, we must sing, because we are so very happy, and we love each other so.”
“And why are your wings and back so dusky and dark?”
“That our enemies may not see us.”
“But I’ve read,” said Harry, “that many tropical birds were all bright and gay with colours of every hue.”
“Oh yes, so they are, but then these live all their lives among flowers as gorgeous in colour as they themselves are, and so their enemies mistake them for the flowers among which they dwell.”
“Do you come from a very far-off land?”
“Yes, a very very far-off land.”
“And is it very beautiful there?”
“Very very beautiful.”
“I would like to go to that far-off beautiful land. How do you get there?”
“We fly.”
“Yes, I know, but I can’t, though I once tried I made a pair of wings out of an old umbrella; they were so awkward, though, and would not work.
“But I meant,” continued Harry, “which way do you go?”
“Southward and southward and southward, and westward and westward and southward again.”
“What a funny road! I should get dead tired before I was halfway.”
“So do we: then we look about for a ship or a rock, if at sea, and alight to rest.”
“And aren’t you afraid the sailors may shoot you?”
“Oh no; for sailors do so love to see us on the yards. (How true! G.S.) They dearly love us. We remind them of England and their cottage homes and their wives and little ones, and of apple orchards and flowery meadows and crimson poppies in the fields of green waving corn, and all kinds of beautiful things.”
“No wonder they love you!”
“Yes; they do so love us; I’ve seen the tears start to the eyes of little sailor lads as they gazed at us. And I know the men tread more lightly on the deck for fear of scaring us away.”
“And when rested you just go on again?”
“Yes, on and on and on.”
“I should lose my head.”
“We don’t – something seems to guide us onward.”
“I suppose you see some terrible sights? Have you seen a shipwreck? I should like to.”
“Oh no, no, you would not. If you once saw a shipwreck, or a ship foundering at sea, you would never never forget it.”
“Tell me.”
“I cannot. No one could. But somehow it is usually at night we witness these awful scenes. I have seen a ship sailing silently over the moonlit water, the yellow light streaming from her ports, and I have heard the sounds of music and laughter, and the voices of glad children at play. And I have seen the same vessel, but a short hour after, drifting on in the darkness to the pitiless rocks before a white squall. Ah! white was the squall, white were the waves, but not more white than the scared, dazed faces of those poor shrinking, moaning beings who rushed on deck when she struck.”
“What did you do?”
“Flew away. Just flew away.”
“Tell me more.”
“What shall I tell you of?”
“About your own bright home in the far-off land.”
“Shall I speak to you of the coralline sea that laves the tree-fringed shores of Africa?”
“Yes, yes, tell me of that.”
“Rippling up through the snakey roots of the mangrove trees, bathing the green branches that stoop down to kiss them – oh! ’tis a lovely sea, when the great sun shines, and the cyclone and squall are far away, calm and soft and blue. Yet not all blue, for on the coral flats it is a tender green, and grey where the cloud shadows fall on it. But all placid, all warm and dreamy as if fairies dwelt in caves beneath. Then the little green islands seem to float above the sea as if only just let down from heaven.
“Sometimes great sharks float upwards from the dark depths beneath, and bask on the surface with their fins above the water, and white sea-gulls come and perch upon them just as starlings do on sheep at home.”
“How strange! Don’t the sharks try to kill the birds?”
“No, they like it, and I think the birds sing to them and lull them to sleep, or that they tell them tales of far-off lands as I am speaking now to you.
“But on the coral reefs, where the sea, at a distance, looks so sweetly green, if you were there in a boat and looked away down to the bottom, oh! what a sight would be spread out before you! A garden of shrubs and waving flowers more lovely than anything ever seen on land.”
“How I should like to go there! But the interior of Africa is very gorgeous too, is it not?”
“Yes, to us who can fly quickly from place to place, through flowery groves, where birds and blossoms vie with each other in the beauty of their colours, where the butterflies are like fans, of crimson and green where the very lizards and every creeping thing, are adorned with rainbow tints and ever-changing bright metallic sheen.”
“There are dark corners, though, in this strange land of yours, are there not?”
“Yes, dark, dark corners; but I must not tell you of these, of the deep gloomy forest, where the gorilla howls, and wretched dwarfs have their abode, or of the great swamp lands in which the dreadful crocodile and a thousand other slimy creatures dwell, and where, in patches of forest, the mighty anacondas sleep. Nor of the wondrous deserts of sand, nor of the storms that rise sometimes and bury caravans of camels and men alive. No, we swallows think only of the beauty of our African home, of its roaring cataracts, its wooded hills, its peaceful lakes and broad shining rivers, and of the glorious sunshine that gladdens all.
“But now I must go. Pray let me free. I have much to do before the summer is over, and that kind something beckons me back again – back to the land of the sun.”
“Go, birdie, go, and some day I too will take my flight to the Land of the Sun.”
Book One – Chapter Six.
Harry’s School-Days – Lost in a Snowstorm
Harry Milvaine had aunts and uncles in abundance, and about as many cousins as there are gooseberries on an ordinary-sized bush; for he had first cousins and second and third cousins, and on and on to, I verily believe, forty-second cousins. They count kinship a long way off in the Scottish Highlands.
And they used all to visit occasionally at Beaufort Hall. They did not all come at once, to be sure, else, if they had, there would have been no beds to hold them. They would have had to sleep in barns and byres, under the hayricks and out on the heather.
Oh, it was no uncommon thing now for Harry to sleep on the heather. On summer nights he would often steal out through the casement window of his bedroom, which opened on to the lawn, and go quietly away to a healthy hill not far off. Here he would pull a bundle of heather for a pillow, and lie down rolled in his plaid with Eily in his arms and a book in his hand. As long as there was light he would read. When it grew semi-dark he would sleep, and awake in the morning as fresh as a blackbird.
Once only he had what some boys would consider an ugly adventure. On awaking one morning he felt something damp and cold touch his knee – he wore the kilt. He quickly threw off the plaid, and there, close by him, was an immense green-yellow snake. The creature was coiled up somewhat in the form of the letter W. It was fully as thick as the neck part of an ordinary violin, and it glittered all over as if varnished. A wholesome, healthy snake, I assure you. He raised his head and hissed at Harry.